


36th & Main

by asocialfauxpas (fuzzytomato)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Attempted Kidnapping, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 00:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15569862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzytomato/pseuds/asocialfauxpas
Summary: Frank Castle just wanted some fucking ice cream on a hot day in June. Instead, he stumbles into a kidnapping plot involving a Stark Industries intern and unwittingly becomes friends with Tony Stark in the interest of keeping Peter Parker out of trouble.





	36th & Main

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a street intersection at the border of Queens and Manhattan.

Frank Castle only wanted some ice cream.

New York was fucking hot in June and the place he had found to squat didn’t have much in the way of air conditioning. He had a window unit that sputtered when he smacked it hard enough with his fist, but otherwise the abandoned studio he’d found on the line between Brooklyn and Queens was hot enough to boil an egg on the kitchen linoleum. His apartment was small and closed in and the air didn’t stir because he had a thing about having the windows open even though he was on the fourth floor.

And sure, he’d been hotter places. He’d participated in his share of missions on foreign soil where he’d lost half his body weight in sheer sweat, where he’d piss nothing because all the liquid in his body had seeped out of his pores. But that had been a long time ago in places where he didn’t have access to corner stores. Back before he’d made a promise to Karen Page that he’d take better care of himself.

Besides, a walk was better than sitting on his mattress listening to the neighbors fight again through the paper-thin walls and ruminating on things he couldn’t change. 

New York was hot. His place was a hole. And he wanted ice cream.

A walk to the corner store was a reasonable course of action.

“Look, you have the wrong guy. I don’t even know what you’re talking about!”

Plastic bag dangling from one hand, bottle of water in the other, Frank rounded a corner on his way back and stopped short.

The voice that cracked with panic belonged to a kid—well a teenager—surrounded by a group of guys with more muscle than sense. The three of them had him cornered against a dumpster and one of the guys gripped the kid by the backpack, shaking him around like a naughty puppy.

The kid had blood dripping from his nose and a rapidly swelling eye.

“Try again, kid. We know you work for Stark.”

“How can I work for Stark?” he said, hands up, shoulders near his ears. Blood splattered onto his t-shirt as he talked. “I’m sixteen!”

The big guy rattled the kid like a rag doll, lifting him up so only his toes touched the ground, the straps of his backpack straining under his arms.

“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Well you would know being the expert and all.”

Frank smothered a snort at the comeback. Snarky kid. For as big these guys were and for already being injured, he appeared relatively calm, almost like he’d seen worse and these goons were small potatoes. It didn’t sit well with Frank how any of this was going down, especially in his neighborhood, under his watch, and dammit, he was beginning to sound like the Devil in Hell’s Kitchen. Fucking Catholic guilt rubbing off on him.

“Look, we’re not getting paid to talk to him. Knock him out so we can take him back to the boss.”

Well that— _that_ —had the kid paling and his calm façade cracked. He went from dangling to struggling. He lashed out, catching one of the goons in the stomach with a well-aimed and forceful kick. The guy doubled over, and the kid slipped out of the backpack straps, dropping into a crouch. But his actions were to no avail.

Frank winced when the big guy punched him across the face and the kid’s head whipped around with a spray of blood. He fell back like a puppet with the strings cut. His head lolled on the metal of the dumpster, eyes unfocused, rivulets of blood running from his nostrils, and now from a cut above his eyebrow.

“Hey!” Frank couldn’t help himself. He strode forward. There were a few things that Frank Castle couldn’t abide, and violence against kids was high on the list. “Let the kid go.”

“Mind your business, pal,” one of the goons spat. “Keep walking.”

Frank chuckled. “I can’t do that.” He shrugged. “I’m a nosy son of a bitch.”

“Yeah?” They said, spreading out and turning their backs on the kid.

Frank took a long swig of his water then tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He gripped the bag with his pint of ice cream tighter in his fingers.

“Yeah,” he said.

Frank had been in a lot of fights, but he could easily say he’d never used a swinging plastic bag of ice cream as a weapon before. He found it effective, especially when used against the side of a guy’s head. But in the end, there were three of them, and one of him, and though he had two on the ground whimpering and clutching various body parts in pain, there was still the third.

Frank bled from his split knuckles and his ice cream had tumbled on the asphalt somewhere and he was sweating, and his chest heaved, and he was _pissed_.

The last of the three, the big goon, flipped open a knife and Frank readied himself. But before his assailant could lunge, the kid was up and off the ground and latched on the big guy’s back.

“It isn’t nice to bring a knife to a fist fight,” he said, forearm locked around the guy’s throat, legs wrapped around his waist.

He was a nimble little fucker.

The guy lumbered around, swinging his knife toward Frank, and then flailed toward the kid as he struggled. He rammed backward, and the kid squawked when they collided with the dumpster. Frank wasn’t quite sure what happened in the ensuing scuffle between the three of them, only that he’d thrown a few more punches, and the knife went skittering on the ground, and by the end of it, the guy was spitting blood in the gravel and the kid… the kid was gone.

Frank stepped on the goon’s outstretched fingers, the bones crunching beneath his heavy boots.

“Tell your boss,” he said, leaning down, “not in my neighborhood. Got it?”

He grumbled, and Frank exerted more pressure and the guy yelped. “Yeah. Yeah. Got it.”

“Get lost.”

The trio scrambled and ran, and Frank’s fingers itched for the gun he’d left in the apartment. Broken fingers and a concussion were too light a punishment for trying to kidnap a kid in broad daylight.

Speaking of…

Frank walked over to the dumpster and peered in. “You okay?”

The kid sprawled on bags of trash. The bruise around his eye had purpled. His t-shirt with the lame science pun was torn and bloodied, and there was a wicked slash across his abdomen which leaked onto the ruined fabric. Stupid question.

The kid took Frank’s outstretched hand and together they hauled him out. His legs threatened to collapse right from under him.

“Geez, kid. We need to get you to a hospital.”

It was like Frank had suggested the sewer or something equally horrible. The kid threw his hands up and staggered away. “No hospital. I’m fine. I’m good.” He took a few steps and wobbled. Frank grabbed him by the arm to steady him.

“Yeah, right. What’s your name?”

He licked his bottom lip, which was split. “Peter.”

“Come on, Peter. Is there someone I should call?” The kid shook his head. “At least let me get you a cab.”

“No, no really. Thanks for the help, but I’m fine.” The kid shrugged off Frank’s hand, took two steps, and crumpled to the ground.

Frank nudged him with the toe of his boot, and the kid rolled over, completely and utterly passed out.

Frank sighed. “Great.” He grabbed the kid’s backpack then hefted him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

Walking away from the scene, Frank scooped up his pint of ice cream from where it had rolled. At least his excursion wasn’t a total waste.

-

It spoke volumes about the kind of neighborhood Frank lived in that no one commented on the fact that he carried an unconscious teenager down a block and up a flight of stairs.

He deposited Peter on a mattress in the corner and rethought his life choices for that day. He should’ve stayed in his fucking apartment. Barring that, he should’ve dropped the kid off at the nearest emergency room. Instead, he chanced a random teenager bleeding out on his mattress, and several years in prison for murder charges.

Fuck.

Peter groaned once, hands twitching, eyelids fluttering, but was out again in seconds, body going limp in the way only an unconscious (or dead) man could. The gash across his abdomen bled sluggishly but wasn’t deep. Frank pressed a wad of bandages against it and taped it down to curb the bleeding. The kid’s right eye was completely swollen shut, and while painful, wasn’t fatal. The cut on his brow gushed like head wounds normally did but the concussion he obviously had was a little worrying.

Great.

At least Frank had the kid’s backpack. He sat down heavily in his one chair and rifled through, digging his way past thick books, a pile of blue and red fabric, and an assortment of pens and highlighters to find a wallet and a fancy cell phone at the very bottom. Inside the wallet was Peter Parker’s student ID for Midtown School of Science and Technology, his learner’s permit with a truly awful picture and an address in Queens, some crumpled bills, and a movie ticket stub. Huffing, Frank threw the wallet back into the bag. He pulled the cell phone out, flipping it over in his hand, thumb rubbing over the Stark Industries logo.

Huh.

So, either the kid was rich, which wasn’t likely judging by the ragged state of his shoes, or those assholes were correct, and he was an intern.

The phone itself was passworded, but when Frank slid his thumb along the cracked screen, a prompt popped up.

_Dial Emergency Number. (Emergencies Only, Pete!)_

Frank was fairly certain this counted. He tapped the number.

It rang once.

“You better be dead or dying, kid, and not in a metaphorical way.”

Frank frowned. Who talked to their kid like that? What an asshole. 

After a beat of silence, the guy continued. “Kid? You there? You know I was joking, no need to go quiet on me. Kid? FRIDAY check with Karen—”

Frank cleared his throat. “I have your kid.” He winced and shook his head at himself. Not a great opening to a conversation in which Frank didn’t want to end up arrested. Again.

“Who is this? How did you get this phone?”

Oh. He hit a nerve. The guy’s voice went from teasing to tense in a heartbeat.

From the dredges of his memory, Frank went for his best reassuring tone, which admittedly wasn’t that great. “Look, I found your kid and his phone. He’s been hurt, and I have him—”

“No, you look, buddy. In five minutes there is going to be a world of trouble knocking at your door if you don’t put the kid on the line right now.”

“Is that so?” Frank asked, amused, and too impulsive for his own good.

“Very much so,” the guy bit back.

“Well, I’d love to let the kid explain to you how I’m not the bad guy, but he’s passed out.” The guy on the other end made a strangled noise. Definitely hit a nerve. “So instead of sending a world of trouble to my location, how about sending someone to help him. I’m sure your boss Tony Stark can track this phone, right?”

“Buddy,” the guy said, tone smug, “I found your location before you even spoke.”

Frank snapped his head up when he heard a creak outside his door.

“Oh look, I’m already here.”

Frank dropped the phone and lunged for the gun on the card table he used for meals just as a high whine reached his ears and his door splintered inward. From his knees, Frank aimed the handgun as Iron Man broke through and stomped into the apartment.

Fucking Iron Man.

Fucking Tony Stark.

Oh, shit.

“Drop your gun,” the metallic voice said.

“Drop your arm,” Frank countered. He stared at the circle of energy and light aimed at him. The bullets he had loaded were not armor-piercing. He didn’t stand a chance against Iron Man and would be obliterated if the superhero wished it. He had no power here, no collateral, well, if you didn’t count the kid on the mattress in the corner.

He had the half-thought of turning his gun toward Peter—that would get Stark to stand down—but that was a bad guy move, what a criminal would do, and Frank was not a criminal. And he wasn’t about to accidentally hurt the kid he saved. Even if it did bring him a world of trouble.

Damn, he just wanted some ice cream.

The stand-off lasted a full minute, sixty interminable seconds, seventy tense beats of Frank’s heart. Sweat beaded along his hairline and a drip rolled along the length of his spine. 

“Mr. Stark? You’re here?” Peter’s voice was weak and a little slurred and the sentence tipped up into a question at the end as if he couldn’t believe that Iron Man was standing in Frank’s doorway with the door in pieces around him.

Frank couldn’t fucking believe it either.

“You okay there, Pete?”

Peter pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and winced. “Yeah, yeah, Mr. Stark. I’m good.” Using his elbow, he pushed into a sitting position, one arm wrapped around his middle, then squinted at the scene. It took him a beat, but when he registered what exactly was going on, his eyes widened.

“Mr. Stark! What are you doing?” He shot to his feet and swayed dangerously, almost pitching into the line of fire.

Frank stood from his crouch and caught Peter's arm before he fell again, abandoning the pretense that his gun was any kind of deterrent against Iron Man. He still gripped it though, while he used his free hand to guide Peter to the lone chair in the room.

“Whoa, kid. Steady now.”

Peter grunted when he sat, hunching over and pressing a hand to the weeping wound. “Mr. Stark! He saved me!” For someone with dried blood under his nostrils and down his chin, and bruises all over his face, he was surprisingly animated. “There were these guys and they followed me from school and they were all ‘we know you’re an intern.’ And they tried to _kidnap_ me. I tried to fight them off but I couldn’t and he—” he paused and whipped his head around to Frank. “I don’t know your name.”

“Frank,” he said, as he set the gun back on the table, a sign of trust in the slowly easing tension since the kid awoke.

“And Frank stopped them and beat them up with a tub of ice cream. It was awesome.”

“Kid,” Stark said, his tone one of long suffering, and paternal worry, “we need to work on your definition of awesome.” He lowered his arms, finally deeming that Frank wasn’t a threat. “A new invention is awesome. Your little decathlon team winning a meet is awesome. Being saved by ice-cream wielding squatter is decidedly not awesome.”

Peter smiled, and the split of his lip dribbled blood. He tilted his head to look at Frank. Fuck, he looked gruesome. “Don’t mind him. His manners leave a little to be desired. I’m sure he didn’t mean to offend the person _who rescued me_.”

“None taken,” Frank said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk as Stark sputtered.

The levity was short lived when the kid tried to stand and the remaining blood in his face drained and he sat back down into the chair hard.

“Christ, Pete. Stay still. You look awful. Your aunt is going to kill me.”

What was left of Peter’s smile dropped away. “Don’t call May.”

There was a heavy sigh then the Iron Man suit opened, and Tony Stark actually stepped out wearing a shirt with a kitten on it underneath a blazer that cost the entirety of Frank’s earthly possessions. Frank’s eyebrows shot up.

“Okay. A car will be pulling up to this…” Stark looked around, gaze critical, “fine building to drive us to medical care. And you can tell me the whole story on the way to get that,” he pointed at the wad of bandages that blood seeped through, “stitched. And that…” he made a motion with his hand at Peter’s nose, “set before it heals wrong.”

Peter pouted then rolled his eyes, but the small act of teenage attitude ended in a wince.

“Think you can stand, now?” Frank asked.

Peter’s shoulders drooped but he wobbled to his feet and Frank immediately steadied him. He helped Peter limp his way across the tiny room to Stark standing in the doorway.

“Sorry about the door,” Stark said. “I’ll have it replaced.”

Frank bit back the ‘not really my door’ on the tip of his tongue. Stark had already pegged him a squatter, no need to confirm it. Instead, he grunted in response and eased Peter toward Stark. Stark took Peter’s arm and slung it over his shoulders. Peter melted into the embrace, eyelids drooping.

“Come on, kid. Stay with me.”

Peter opened his eyes wide and shook his head. “I’m here. I’m awake.”

“Sure, you are. Anyway, Frank, thanks for helping the kid out.” He squinted at Frank, eyes crinkling at the corners, brow furrowed. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

Frank turned away and dipped his chin. “No. We’ve never met.”

“Huh. Well then. I’d say until next time, but I honestly hope there’s not one.”

“Yeah, same. See you around, Peter.”

Peter hung off Stark like a limpet. He smiled again, bright and wide and a little loopy. “Bye, Mr. Frank. Thanks for saving me.”

“You’re welcome, kid. Stay out of trouble.”

“Not likely,” Stark muttered as they left, shuffling down the hall. The Iron Man suit closed, turned away, and left on its own.

Standing by the broken door, Frank listened as Peter and Stark descended the stairs, and once they left the building, he peeked through the window and watched as they got into a sleek black car. When the car pulled away, Frank took a deep breath.

He didn’t regret intervening. Not at all. He stopped a kidnapping at the very least, a murder at the worst, if they’d not gotten what they wanted out of Stark. But the whole situation sat sour in Frank’s stomach. 

He shook his head. It wasn’t his problem. Stark had it in hand. He didn’t need to get involved.

Except he already was.

Fuck.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a bad track record with WIPs, but I loved writing this and I love the Peter Parker and Tony Stark father/son dynamic. I also wanted a fun fic project to work on in between my pro writing work. I'm guessing this will be about three chapters, but that of course may change. Thanks!


End file.
